My Throat Knows The Pollution Too Well

These desks are white, a muted sterile clinical white. My computer is a greyer shade of this clinical mandate. My computer looks like an odd tumor extending from the counter top.

My stomach is 500ml of caffeine and sugar. My throat and my eyes are a dusty haze of itchy dryness. It doesn't matter how long I swallow or blink, it is that same scratchy dusty itch.

Three inches from my left arm sits about forty to forty-five final exams--they are not graded, but they will be. Its 9:20am and I have until 12:30 to get them done. I want to believe that they will be done. Thy will be done.

I just told my department head what classes I want to teach next year--I didn't tell him that I am not coming back. I watched an interview with Mitch Hedberg yesterday. In response to what drove him to make it as a comedian, "he said, well you got to have a job that is worse than comedy. You got to have that sort of desperate need to make it, because you got nothing else." Allen Ginsberg said his dad was a poet. His dad was also a high school English teacher. He said the difference between him and his dad, was that he had nothing to fall back on.

These tests I am about to grade are a pillow of convenience.

Jamie told me to stop dreaming about the future, and to just be present. I told her its my favorite past time, and the Internet always indulges my fantasy.

My recording microphone didn't make it to her house in time. Jamie is going to give my mic to Annie. Annie is coming in March--I will record pretty things then. I can't get too hung up on clarity just yet.

When I try writing my play, I put the song "Burma Shave" on loop. I don't care too much about the story Waits tells, but I like the voice; I like the chords; I like the poorly articulated vocal control; I like the ambiance.

I just read a poem from a student. She wanted suggestions. She is contemplating the need for acceptance and self-acceptance. After reading the piece, and after responding I landed on the notion of irony--as I understand it. Our lives our battles between what is and what is expected. Often times, our thoughts and actions are geared towards fitting into the expected. We are trying to swim with the current, even if where we want to be is up stream and bautiful, we head towards the falls, because that is where the other fish are flowing. Bubble bubble, gulp.

I have the innate feeling that we all possess some insane piece of greatness, but it is hard to tell if the dream has already been tainted. Hypothetically, I just want to play music in a band and travel the sea of humanity. The dream is music and the connection between souls in the night. The dream is then tied to fame, and dreams of TV and stadiums and fans, and ego. Soon the dream is about TV and success. The true end has become the means, and I am sitting wondering what is true. Is art just a tainted thought of how to be what society wants me to be--a productive contributor of capital and labor?

So, its a cloudy day in mid December. The students are gone, and the grades remain to be given. Hangovers trickle down the hall, and sneezes sneak around corners for conferences with allergies and soar throats. Somewhere a suit kicks up a shiny shoe, and dreams about pay checks and institutional advancement. Some of these teachers are dreaming of better days, true paths, and escapes; others, are dreaming of neat writing and constructive commentaries--objectivity and tidy grades. Me, I am just sitting and dreaming. Coffee is coarsing through the synapses, and my legs twitch as I type.

"They say dreams are growing wild," and the exhaust out of the taxi tailpipe is just another breath of fresh air. To the dreamer in us all.

Catch-up is not just for Burgers

So here we are. This is the night before finals week. Finals week shall entail a shit load of grading. But the reward shall be a trip to Oaxaca.

Much has transpired of late. Here are some pictures and brief words about the happenings. Oh wait, today, in the park, Lucio and Chops caught a pigeon! They rustled it from under the bushes, and Chops came trapsing out with a flapping bloody pigeon in his mouth. It was fucking nuts! Of all the things he has chased, and so desperately wanted to catch, he finally got a bird. The two of them were as happy as some pigs in shit. I had an odd emotion of sadness, respect, and pride. I picked the feathers from his mouth and quickly exited the scene. All the Mexicans looked mordified. Julia and I walked quickly around the corner.

A) I gave my guitar to my friend Pablo and this is what he did with it:




B) I sort of cleaned my car last week. It was rad. I am making my dogs stay in the far back, and the fur levels are down. Of course, when they are wet, and I leave them in the car to go get something from a store, they don't stay in the back. Though I have found, if I leave my car from the back and walk away from it, Flow will sit at the back window so that she can await my arrival--this has helped reduce the fur in the front.

C) Pablo and I have been playing music, and making recordings. Ana, Pablo, and I have eaten Burger King twice in one week. It is always an adventure. This is what Burger King does to Pablo and Ana's faces.

D) Pablo, Ana, and I went to see NOFX play here in Mexico City. I have never seen so many Mexican punks in my life. Some drunk sod-off Mexican tried to grab my shirt that I bought. I leaned into the barachito and said, "I don't SPEAK SPANISH!", and I snagged my shirt back--he was too drunk to take it beyond that response. I didn't take any pictures at the concert, but I did take pictures on my way home.

E) Lucio sired some puppies. He loves them. They are ridiculously cute. Julia pooped one of them out of her rear end. Lucio is still a stud in my book.

F) I have begun writing a play. So far, I think it is utter crap. However, I am utilizing Joseph Campbell's Monomyth Archetype and I hope to weave a beautiful narrative.

G) I love Life.

Life Like a Forest at Dinner

Well, today was a good one. I woke up early. I set my alarm for 8:06am. I stared at my feet for awhile. I pressed them into the high end of my fur covered blue couch--I've gone back to couch surfing--it suits me.

After a few meager groans I got up and dusted off the night time. I flossed my teeth--flossing makes my gums bleed. I brushed and rinsed. I ran my hands over my 5 day scruff. I took my flip flops and cleaning products and I headed to my car. For an hour and a half I scrubbed and slapped, sprayed and rubbed, and sneezed and sneezed. My car was filthy--still is--but its not as bad.

Picked Pahb and Anne up, and then we snagged Mau, and we hit the road. Mau's got a GPS and it guided us to Los Desiertos de Leones--I found it, mom.

We paid 10 pesos to get in. They had signs that said no dogs--there were plenty of dogs in the park. We parked. We hiked passed the monastery and the barbacoa de canejo, and we dropped down the hill side. We spent the better part of the early afternoon sitting next to a running river, singing songs, eating food, and being present. The dogs ran up and down, up and down. They were covered in sticky burs. Since there are no ticks in these forests, sticky burs, are just fine with me. Mauricio, the dogs, and I charged up a hillside and took the deer trail to the top. Flow and I crossed a ravine on a fallen log--I sent Chops below to find his way--he is slightly clumsy and I am not sure he has the nimble feet to cross a high pitched log.

The dogs rolled in horse shit--I washed them in the river.

I brought my camera, but took no pictures.

We drove back, parted ways, and I made my way home.

The dogs slept long and hard. I shaved some of my scruff, and I headed to dinner. Dinner was being hosted by Martha Mendoza and her family: Ray (Husband), Ray (Son), Thomas, Eleanor, and Isabel. They are possibly the nicest little bunch I have met. When Eleanor bit her tongue chewing some broccoli, she leaned into Thomas. Thomas leaned over and told her to breathe, and he gently rocked her--I don't recall the last time I saw siblings actually love each other.

Ray is a stay at home dad, and I think he may be Andy Reynaga in 20 years--he had a lovely disposition, a good sense of humor, knowledgeable about various topics, athletic, and all and all just a being of goodness. He plays guitar. We are going to jam. Martha, well Martha works for the Associated Press. The way she talked about her work over dinner, made me think she was fairly important. She talked about teaching at Princeton and UCSC, turning down at job at the University of British Columbia which had been created for her, and she mentioned stories and investigations that seemed rather high profile--apparently her and John Krakauer have beef. She made a mean dinner: homemade pizza, a delectable salad, fruit, guacemole, salsa, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The Mendoza's own a house on Cayuga. They lived about four blocks from me in Santa Cruz. I met them here--in Mexico City. I googled Martha Mendoza--this is what I found (click her name).

I think life is a mysterious and altogether awesome.

Today was a damn good day.

Definitely leaving high school teaching.

The Odd Way Lifelessness Brings Folks to Consciousness

Its been awhile. I am compelled to write this post, not on behalf of my travels, but rather a venting of odd emotion. The catalyst for this post is the second student death here at ASF within the first semester. I have just returned to my class, from yet another emergency assembly, in which a student's death is announced in a solemn speech. I am not sure how the hell I feel. The precursor to this death, was last night was "The Oscars"--an annual student thrown party in which students nominate each other for categories such as "Biggest Skank" and "Dumbest Drunk". The party is known at the school, and despite efforts from the administration to thwart the party, it goes off without much disruption. Students showed up to school today intoxicated--one red faced freshman stumbled into my class complaining of a stomach ache--she looked like the bottom end of a New York City dumpster. I sent her the office, and she was sent home.

Now I don't know if this death was in connection to the party--the poor kid fell off a balcony at home at 4 in the morning--however, my suspicion would be some element of relation. The death earlier this year involved a student, intoxication, a bicycle, and a freak accident with a car.

Once again, I am not sure how I feel about this. In both assemblies I have felt this strong aversion to the emotion that I witness--in neither case did I know the student. I can sympathize, but in the moment of mass hysterical crying, I have this incontrolable urge to withdraw and leave. Teachers hugging, their salty faces huddled together for strength--I don't like it. Somehow it absolutely puts me into an isolationist mentality. In some ways I distrust the feelings, I am repulsed by the situation, and it feels odd to feel that way--but I feel it.

I haven't upated this here blog in a minute or two, and this is not how I would like to reconnect, but the spirit has moved me. It is a strange Friday in early December.
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Since last I wrote, much has gone on. I had some car trouble after my epic run through the woods with Julia et al. I think everything is fine, and I am gearing up for an epic road trip through Oaxaca, Chiapas and the Yukatan. For Christmas, I'm hoping to recreate an old Coronoa commercial from my youth: An anonymous gringo strolls a cabana speckled sand bar at dusk. He sets down his cerveza, plugs in some Christmas tree lights on a neighboring palm, returns to his lounger and sips a brew, while the eveing stars harmonize with his vibe.

I am looking for a new apartment. I am hoping to move to La Condesa or Roma. This is a hipster area. I do not want to be a hipster, but I do want to live within walking distance of the dog parque and friends. So my hunt is furiously under way.

My mom came to visit. My mom is awesome. We went to Aztec ruins, Planeta 51, museums, forests, the main central square and cathedral. We ate tacos al pastor for Thanksgiving, and we watched several movies on my computer. My mom made me nostalgic for fall time in Studio City--I love home. I know, eventually, that is where I will hang my hat--that makes me smile.

I went to my friend's birthday party two nights ago. I was extremely tired, but it was extremely fun. I was going to stay for one beer--I stayed for four. I spoke more Spanish with each brew. Good people are good people, no matter where you go. The Spaniards are damn good people--I feel really lucky to have met such a wonderful bunch of creative folks. Work, the day after said party, was tough--I almost fell asleep while showing a movie to my Science Fiction class. Somehow, this reaffirmed my desire to stop teaching.

My allergies are kicking. The winds have kicked up the polen and the poo particles, and my eyes burn and my nose itches, and I sneeze in my sleep.

Yesterday, I had dinner at an organic restaurant. Prior to that I drank coffee with Hector during my Spanish lesson, and I told him the following story:

After dropping my mom off at the airport, I was pulled over by a highway cop for talking on my phone. They told me it was an infraction. They wrote down my license plate and told me they were taking my driver's license. I played up my lack of Spanish fluency (not hard to do). I asked to pay for the infraction. The fat pig slobbered with delight, when I offered this option. He told me that I needed to pay $100US. I told him I had $200 pesos--he laughed with his assumed authority. I told him that I needed to call my friend at the Embassy. I told him to wait. I called Julia. She told me to take down his name and badge number, and to tell him that my friend was coming in 20 minutes with her boss (if need be, she would make this scenario happen--she was at a BBQ and in fine form for some street theater). I told the cop that my friend from the embassy was coming with her boss, and that I would wait for them here, because I did not understand what the problem was or what he was saying. The long and short of it is: The cop gave me my ID back, I paid nothing, and I left. It made me happy to not blindly submit to false authority. It made me happy to use my intellect to out wit a bully.

The above would not have been possible with out the delightful insight provided to me by my neighbor's father, Chuco. He told me to play the embassy card during my next policia altercation--he was right.

At the organic diner last night, I drank Cab Sav and laughed it up. My dogs sat through the whole dinner. At the end of the dinner, a gringa came up to me, and said she had enjoyed watching my dogs. She was older and her husband was younger. She was American and he was Irish. They have a kid. They are starting a new company in San Migul de Allende. She was one of the founders of Burt's Bees Wax. I assume she has a lot of money. I think I am going to try and stay with them on my route North this summer. She had a nice smile. Her name was Sunny. When Sunny hugged you, she said, "Blessings".

Yesterday, my student Karime gave me a tie for Thanksgiving. The tie has a small reoccurring pattern--its a cockfight or a pelea de gallos. It is orange--I love orange.
Blessings.